


Benedictine Monastery at Douai, 7-10 September 1637

by Anima Nightmate (faithhope)



Series: All For One At War [22]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alphabet, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Children, Franco-Spanish War, Gen, Monks, Orphans, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Some Historical Fudging, Teaching, Thirty Years War, War, Wartime, monastic life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:29:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23759884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithhope/pseuds/Anima%20Nightmate
Summary: “With respect, Father–”“– is rarely a phrase ever used by those wishing to convey actual respect.”“Respect and obedience are two separate things. If you’ll forgive me.”“Always, my son, but, in this instance, I must insist.”*Another instalment in the long series of pieces based around the black box that is the Musketeers during the Spanish War.Now with bonus Appendix!
Relationships: Aramis & The Abbot of Douai
Series: All For One At War [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1137809
Comments: 22
Kudos: 24





	1. Summons

#### Monday 7th September

“With respect, Father–”

“– is rarely a phrase ever used by those wishing to convey actual respect.”

“Respect and obedience are two separate things. If you’ll forgive me.”

“Always, my son, but, in this instance, I must insist.” His pace still measured as they move together towards the guest dortoir, he pauses his speech to look over his most troublesome charge. Until now. “Aramis,” and, as if to make up for the other familial title, still missing, he adds: “my son,” again. He smiles, and Aramis is suddenly, wildly, reminded of Tréville, and maybe even a little of the Cardinal, God rest him.

It does not do to forget that there is a formidable mind behind the stubbornly pacific mien of his Abbot. Gabriel Brett is only the latest of a series of men fighting a complex, curiously humble battle of international politics and patronage to bring this monastery to its current, still nascent form.

“Father,” he murmurs, head bowing briefly; half obeisance, half query.

“We have tried to find you work that best suits both your abilities and our needs…”

“But you don’t need a marksman, and the most exciting injury we’ve had in over a year was when Brother Edward laid his hand open with–”

“– the boning knife, yes. And he will always be grateful for your swift action. Brother Wulstan less so.”

“I did apologise,” he says, slowly. Cautious now, but still sounding, at least to his own ears, more than a little childish.

“Hmm,” replies the Abbot, and Aramis is nearly half-sure that he wouldn’t display so much of a twinkle to anyone else, but it also makes him grieve that he is still a man apart, not one his Father expects to treat him with sufficient deference.

Still a man, in fact, and all that means. He is not sure what he, himself, means by this, but–

Well.

“And, outwith Brother Aemilian’s gratitude for your medical help in more difficult times which, God willing, we shall see only rarely in such a place as this, we return,” proceeds the Abbot, implacable as ice floe, “to the diverting topic of your service to the Rule.”

“Father, I am more than willing to serve, in any capacity that you would have me – gardener or interpreter or, or clothier,” if he’s never to sew wounds again, at least… “but–”

“You trained younger Musketeers in shooting, did you not?”

He frowns. “Not _that_ much younger, and not always younger to boot. Father, please–”

“Son, your mind is too fine for manual labour alone, and you lack the patience to copy without interpretation, let alone the years of skill our copyists have studied and trained to attain.”

Aramis catches his indignant sputter at the phrase “lack the patience” only partially. He acknowledges by gesture that all this is no more than he himself already knew.

“I will submit myself to your instruction, Father.”

“Thank ye, my son.” Sometimes the Abbot’s English accent comes out in the strangest places.

Which reminds him: “Where are they from?”

“France, I believe, though the elder lad may be from the Low Countries. I am not so skilled with accents as you are.”

A pointed reference to an unfortunate incident of mimicry which Aramis decides to ignore.

“How many?” he asks with a descending note of weariness betraying that he has now said yes, hasn’t he? Dammit.

_Monks shouldn’t swear._

Oh… be at peace, will you? he thinks, fiercely.

“Four. For now. I’ve no doubt more will follow.”

“And I’m to have special care of them?”

“Yes. Teach them what they need to know.”

He frowns. They’re at the door to the dortoir now, and he lowers his voice instinctively. “I’m hardly best placed to instruct them in doctrine…”

“And were you so, we might not even be having this conversation. My son – teach them what they need to know for their life _beyond_ these walls. Good grounding in French and numbers. No need to worry about Latin, I think. Mayhap you could translate the catechism for them. The simpler parts.” Aramis nods as though this were not bordering on scandalous. “A little history would do them well. There are important lessons to be learned.”

Aramis feels his face grow still at this, flashes in vivid memory to any one of a number of dangerous conversations in his past, where sedition was a whisper away, and being caught with fresh translations of holy writ would earn more than a slap on the wrist, where trust came in the sharing of a specific kind of danger that would carry over into the next life, with a number of very unpleasant consequences for the current one if you’d chosen to trust the wrong people.

By comparison, being shot at on a frequent basis had been quite restful.

And, he reminds himself, he no longer has the shield of youth to protect him. On the other hand, the English have long been more… practical about these things. Decision abruptly made, he smiles winningly at his Abbot. “Of course, Father. Did you have anything in particular in mind?”

The Abbot gives him a rather more sharp look than he might have predicted at this capitulation, but nods, clearly satisfied. “I will leave such decisions to you. You have my complete trust. Although you should feel free to seek guidance from me, as ever. Brother Robert will furnish you with any writing materials you might need. Now,” he proceeds, briskly, “we will have desks brought in here for the nonce.” There it is again. “No need to disturb our more… _settled_ brethren.” Those who barely remember childhood, let alone exhibit any comfort at examples of it. Right.

After having been one of the older men among the Musketeers, it has taken him a while to settle into being perceived as the impetuous youngster, let alone the one who needs people to repeat themselves when something in their accent or turn of phrase confounds him.

And now… this…

The Abbot’s eyebrows twitch – somewhere between question and invitation. And order. Right. He squares his shoulders, nods, takes a deep breath as the door opens, and steps into the sunlit dortoir, smiling.


	2. Engagement

####  **Tuesday 8th September, afternoon**

The children have managed three entire and concerted minutes of silence, which Aramis considers one of the greatest achievements of his life.

It has turned out that Adele, the oldest at thirteen-and-a-half, has been convent educated at some point, writes with a clear, if rather deliberate hand, and even has a smattering of very simple Latin (prayers and blessings) along with a knowledge of numbers up to a hundred, beyond which, she’d told him, she’d been assured she would never have to venture.

She is by far the most literate of the group. Luc (“twelve or thirteen”) can scratch his name and is deeply resentful of attempts to gauge his competency. Pierre, six, had just grinned when asked and said: “Writing is for girls, sir.” Aramis, restraining himself from rolling his eyes with the greatest of difficulty, continues to assure Pierre that this is not the case. Joop is too young to have a reliable concept of age, let alone writing.

He is trying to have them memorise the alphabet, and has given Adele the only suitable book in the place he can find in French – which turns out to be about domestic vegetable plots – and has instructed her to copy out the pages about cultivating beans with pen and ink (until he can work out something more appropriate for her to do). To Joop he has given some slate and chalk and told him to draw a doggy. Joop appears uncertain what a doggy is, but is enthused in his rendition, and does not appear to be eating the chalk, at least. Pierre is scratching glacially slowly with his chalk, and keeps peering over at the doggy and sighing. Luc is dividing his scowls roughly equally between his slate, the nicely drawn-out alphabet that Aramis laboured over last night, the window, Adele’s careful scribing, the table, his slate, the door, and Aramis.

Aramis is quite proud of his alphabet. He’d decided to make it as relevant to their everyday lives (including references to their new home) as possible, and this is only partly, he tells himself, because he’s forgotten the one he was taught as a boy.

A is for Apple

B is for Bible

C is for Cottage

He has distinct memories of a fragrant, soft woman of his mother’s house who cared for the children and taught them how to read and write letters, simple words, and numbers when she had the time. She had pointed at things in the room or around the house to make them stick. They had been quite different from the kinds of environment these children know, so he has adapted. He has pleasant recollections of tucking Pauline under his arm as they read a simple picture book together, the joy of sharing the words he’d learned with her, and more recent memories of distracting Athos from his melancholy with talk of poets they both enjoyed, of explaining a word that Porthos has been stubbornly frowning over.

D is for Dog

E is for Egg

He wants these children to share his love of language, he realises, is determined not to terrorise them with the kind of brutally formal training the seminary had employed, and thus spent the first day just talking with them and walking them in gentle tours of their new home, encouraging them to see it as safe and pleasant.

H is for Hogling

I is for Ink

This impression has now been ruined for them, or at least for the two older boys, by introducing them to the painful world of letters.

K is for Kite

L is for Lamp

Admittedly, his illustrations are a little basic, but they surely can’t be judging him on that.

N is for Nail

O is for Oar

Hmm. Why is he so worried about this?

Q is for Quill

R is for Rope

Maybe him watching over them so directly is off-putting. He wanders to the window, looks out, tries not to sigh himself for the gorgeous weather, perfect for riding. No more riding for you. _You chose this_ , he reminds himself for the… is this the thousandth time? Likely far more by now, considering how many times a day he’d said it, sometimes even aloud (though under his breath), in the first few months. It has been… he flicks his fingers in calculation, blinking hard to realise that it is only a few weeks shy of two years that he’s been here. He can’t tell if the time has gone fast or slow. Let’s see, three times a day on average, twenty-two months roughly multiplied by thirty is six hundred and sixty, so… He does sigh now. That’s a lot more than a thousand internal remonstrances.

T is for Tree

The apples are not yet ready. Later fruiting here; further north and, well, they are a different type from the ones he’s used to. _Get used to this – it’s your home now. Your job is to get these children fit for the world they’ll return to when times are more ripe for it._

W is for Wall

But… when will that be? This war, never mind France’s involvement, has been devastating the centre of Europe for, he rolls his eyes in recollection, _nearly twenty years, dear God have mercy_. Chances are very good that they will have to leave long before then.

Well, at least he can send them off with a decent–

“Ow! Get _off!_ ”

“I _never!_ ”

He spins. Too late.

“You _did!_ ”

“Oh, _look_ what you’ve _done!_ ”

Adele jumps back on a screech of chairlegs, shrieking imprecations at the tussling boys, from the tidal wave of ink heading across the table intent on drenching her one skirt, having already started to soak into her work. And heading inexorably for the book she’s been copying from, Aramis sees with further alarm, racing to rescue it and glare at the others, both cross-armed and bright red. Pierre’s face is puckered, and Luc’s lower jaw and lip are jutting mutinously.

He silently rights the inkpot, dumps sand over Adele’s work and as much of the pool on the table as he can, and fetches cloths for the rest, staring at them all the while. Looking around, he sees that Joop’s face is all eyes, and he’s breathing more heavily than Aramis feels comfortable with. Far too belatedly, he realises that he may well need to be treating them like battle-shocked soldiers, whose reactions to loud noise and conflict will stem from horrible memories.

“Stay there,” he tells the two older boys. “Do not move.” He walks slowly around the table, accompanied by the slowing sound of dripping ink, to where the little one is kneeling on the floor with his slate. “Joop, would you like a hug?” Joop, silent, nods emphatically. He crouches down and puts his arms out. Joop totters into them. “Good boy. It’s alright. Want to show me your doggo? That’s a _very_ good doggo!”

He looks up, over the boy’s head, sees her shifting, foot-to-foot. “Adele, how’s your dress?”

“Fine, Monsieur.”

“It’s just Aramis, remember?”

She bobs a curtsey that makes him wince. He takes a deep breath, absently patting Joop. “Is there still some water in the jug?” She nods. “Can you bring it over so we can clear this mess up?” She nods again and trots away to fetch it.

He picks Joop up, and immediately regrets it. He has forgotten quite how heavy even small children actually are, how awkward as their legs swing vigorously, and has lost the knack of carrying them comfortably. _Well_ , he thinks, trying to feel pragmatic, _plenty of time to learn_. He hauls him up against his torso and tucks an arm under his bottom. “Comfy?” The boy nods, chalk- and slate-filled fists respectively propped against his chest. “Alright, then. I’m going to sit you over there on my chair while we sort this out, okay?” Another mute, wobbly nod. He isn’t entirely sure how much French the lad understands, so repeats as much of this as he can in Flemish. The boy giggles, which he, smiling reflexively, chooses to take as a good sign rather than an imputation of his pronunciation.

Adele has returned with the water, and the two lads are studiously not looking at each other. He settles Joop, scoops up three cloths and the jug and pushes them pointedly in front of the culprits. “Clean up this mess,” he tells them quietly. “Use one cloth to mop up the excess ink, another soaked in water to get the rest of it off the table and the floor, the last to dry it off as much as possible. When you’re done, you apologise to Adele. Do you understand?”

They frown at him. He frowns back, uses his height to loom over them. “Do it now, do it quickly, and we’ll say no more about it.”

“Yes, Aramis,” they mumble and, after a small tussle over who has which cloth, they set to, clumsily, but with a reasonable result. Adele has gravitated to Joop in the meantime, and is stroking his head. He has a strong feeling he’ll be relying on Adele quite a lot over the next… however long…

He scrapes the sand back into its box and makes a mental note that he’ll have to talk to Robert about spare supplies, with a hefty amount of grovelling thrown in. The alphabet sheet is a dead loss. He slants a wry look at Adele as he uncovers her parchment. “It’s not _too_ bad… the lower sheets anyway.”

She sighs and looks away. And really: what is she going to say to that?

Mess finally mopped up to everyone’s… acceptance if not approval, he gets everyone sat down again, Joop on his lap, and then… stops.

What in… Heaven’s name is he going to do with them? He’s always been the conciliatory one, the chatty one who’ll make everyone in an argument laugh or, at the very least, distracted enough that they can be clobbered, or run away from more successfully.

His catalogue of bawdy jokes and anecdotes really isn’t going to cut it here, is it?

Discipline, he realises, has never been his defining feature.

“Bloody _Athos_ would know what to do…” he mutters to himself.

Not quietly enough, however. Nigh two years in the exclusive company of his more elderly brethren and he has forgotten some important things.

“What’s Athos?” asks Pierre.

“What’s _bloody_?” asks Luc.

Little pitchers have big ears.

Damn.

No.

“Athos,” he tells the smaller boy, carefully, “is the finest warrior in France. Certainly the finest swordsman. _Bloody_ ,” he tells Luc, even more carefully, “is–”

“What makes him the finest?” the lad interrupts.

“Skill, experience, temperament. And training, I suppose,” he adds, a little absently. “Now, you mustn’t say _bl–_ ”

“Okay,” he says impatiently, and Aramis realises the kid knows fine well what the word means, “but what kind of training?”

“And what kind of experience?” asks Adele, with a sharpness that makes him instantly recall and ruthlessly evaluate how he’d found himself dismissing her early on as one of those girls destined to be tall, quiet, and competent their whole life, looking after other people’s children.

 _I’m an arse_ , he realises, swiftly correcting himself to _ass_.

“Well,” he says, addressing her as directly as he had the boys, “fighting with – as one of,” he amends hurriedly, though he allows it’s still true – “the King’s Musketeers.”

There’s a chorused _oooh_.

“Oe?” asks Joop.

“‘What is a Musketeer?’ is that?”

“Joat.”

“Come on – you can say it in French…” he cajoles.

Joop grins unabashedly. “What is Mooskieter?”

“Musketeer,” corrects Luc, immediately. “King’s Musketeer.”

“Why don’t you tell him?” asks Aramis, who can hear the passion in the lad’s voice. Now is not the time to ask him why he refuses to speak Flemish, to Joop or anyone.

Luc flicks a look he finds difficult to interpret his way, then focuses on Joop. “They’re a group of men – soldiers – who fight for the King of France.” And if Aramis wasn’t sure which side of the border the boy placed his loyalties, he knows now. “They’re the finest! The bravest and best! They can shoot, and ride, and fight with swords. They guard the King…” He peters out.

“They’re his bodyguard?” asks Adele.

“No,” says Aramis, “not exactly. They’re called on for ceremonial guarding duty a lot of the time, and they’ll explicitly guard him in certain circumstances, especially away from the Palace, but right now they’re…” he falters, takes a deeper breath, “they’re fighting for the whole country, protecting the King that way.”

Adele looks a little unconvinced. “Doesn’t he need them?”

“He has the Palace Guard and the Red Guard,” he answers absently. “Now, we should get back to–”

“But Athos is the best?” cuts in Luc.

Aramis blinks for a moment. “They made him Captain,” he says, very quietly, seeing them catching up with him on the road, surrounding him, high on their horses, breathless with the chase and with their news. Sees d’Artagnan’s face dropping, Athos’s becoming still, Porthos’s turning away, jaw clenched.

“So he _is_ the best.”

“He’s got the authority, and maybe that’s just from being aristocracy.” The children gape at him. He hurries on: “He’s the best swordsman, definitely. D’Artagnan’s probably the next best, even though he’s still so young.” And what will war have done to him? Will it have finally knocked that idealism off him, or entrenched it harder?

“Who’s d’Artagnan?”

 _Athos’s lover_ , he shocks himself by nearly saying, tastes the words and swallows them hard. “Er, one of the, er, of the group that Athos is, well, leader of. And his protégé.”

“I thought he led the Musketeers.”

“The King’s Musketeers, and, well, he was always – officially or not – Tréville’s lieutenant.”

“Who’s Tréville?”

“What’s a lieutenant?”

“Tréville was ou– ah– the Captain. Before Athos.” He blinks hard, remembers them telling him again, hasn’t thought of it in ages.

“Is he related to Minister Tréville?” asks Adele.

“He _is_ Minister Tréville,” he tells her. It’s just not– It hasn’t lived in his head.

“ _Wow!_ ” Luc’s eyes are shining. “Was he a Musketeer– King’s Musketeer beforehand as well?”

“Yes.”

“What was this group?” asks Adele.

“Athos, Porthos… and d’Artagnan,” he says. “The very best of the regiment. They called u-uh– they called them the Inseparables.”

“Why?” asks Pierre.

“Why do you _think?!_ ” demands Luc, scornfully, from the great height of six years’ difference.

Aramis raises an eyebrow at him. He subsides, mumbles: “Sorry.”

“Hmm. That reminds me: you both haven’t apologised to Adele yet.”

“Oh.”

“Oh.”

“Go on, then.”

“ _Sorry, Adele_ ,” they chorus raggedly.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she says, waving her hands at them and reminding him in a startled moment of Constance, “it was very boring anyway. This is _much_ better!”

“ _I_ want to be a Musketeer!” declares Pierre.

“You’re too young!” snaps Luc.

“So are you!” retorts Adele.

“And _you_ ’re a girl!”

“ _So?!_ ”

“Girls can’t be Musketeers! Girls don’t fight!”

Aramis can’t help it. “Well…”

Their eyes snap immediately to him.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing, I was just thinking about Constance.” And Milady. And Flea. And one of the guards at his mother’s house.

“Who’s Constance?”

His mouth curves to one side in a small smile, remembering her in breeches, sword at her side. “D’Artagnan’s, er, well…”

“His _lover?!_ ” she asked, delightedly scandalised.

Aramis is less delighted. “Probably not the sort of thing we–”

“Oh, go on!” she says.

“His fiancée,” he says, firmly. “Well, his wife by now, for all he… They must have been wed not long before he went to war… I mean: the same day.”

“Wow!” she says. “Did she follow him?”

“No,” he says, “she stayed with the Queen. She, er, she works for the Queen as her confidante… that’s a lady-in-waiting who’s very,” he coughs suddenly for an unlooked-for image he hasn’t examined in a good, long while, “er, very close to the Queen – looks after her affairs.”

“Are you blushing?”

“No!”

“Never mind that,” says Luc, “what about the Insep-er… er…”

“Go on,” he urges him, quietly.

“Say it again?”

“Inseparables,” he says, slowly. They chorus it back carefully to him.

“Oe?”

“In French, please, Joop.”

“Waarom?”

“Why? Er, beleef, er beleefd… hid? Heid?” The boy giggles, wriggling. Of course, there’s no knowing if a child Joop’s age would know the word or concept of _politeness_ even if he has pronounced that correctly.

The others are staring again. “How many languages do you know, Monsieur Aramis?” asks Adele.

“Er, depends on what you mean by ‘know’ but nine or ten, thereabouts.”

“Wow!” says Pierre.

Luc is less impressed. “And how do you know so much about Musketeers anyway?”

“Well,” he says, “that’s an interesting question, of course, and… the thing is…” he forces a deep breath into himself, “I’m the kind of man who knows a little about a lot of things. It’s just my–”

“Ugh, it’s _obvious!_ Don’t you know _anything?!_ ” demands Adele. Everyone stares at her, Aramis feeling his eyes go as round as Joop’s. “That’s what they _do!_ They meet people and they write down their lives. That’s how we know stuff about the old days.” She looks triumphantly around the table. “That’s what monks are _for!_ ”

“Well, one of the things,” he concedes, determined on two things: One, never to underestimate Adele again if he can help it; Two: to find her something far more interesting to read, if he has to persuade Brother Robert to send off for the books himself.

“Now,” he says, “I think we’ve had about as much indoor excitement as any of us can stand today. How about a nice walk?”

“And you’ll tell us some stories?”

“Maybe,” he allows, “if you’re good.”

*

####  **Thursday 10th September, early evening**

“They have a routine now. Morning: prayers, a reading from the Bible, and a walk through the grounds. We talk about the plants and animals we’ve seen – the uses of them, that kind of thing. Maybe any tales, er, fables we know about them.” Pierre turns out already to be a fund of startling facts about animals, his six or so years on a farm providing him with a cheerfully unsentimental attitude that reminds him, occasionally, of d’Artagnan, who has, only today, cropped up in a tale about a big dog at that place just outside Amiens. (Luc had entertained them with a horrifying folktale about a squirrel that had Aramis glad that Joop had been distracted with gathering acorns.)

“And the afternoon?”

“Reading and writing.” And another walk afterwards, probably indoor stories as the weather gets worse, later in the year. “And for mathematics we’re looking at addition initially. The others are starting almost from scratch, especially with their letters.” Luc is surprisingly comfortable with numbers, but that does make some sense, the more he thinks about his background. “I’m not sure what to do with Adele – she needs better mental stimulation than helping me teach the others.”

“I’m sure something will occur to you.”

“Thank you, Father.” He tries not to sound too dry.

“My son, I feel I should ask: what of the chanting and laughing I heard earlier?”

Damn. Darn.

“The alphabet, Father. If I’ve, er, learned anything from my previous life, it’s that lessons will stick if they make you feel anything other than boredom.” And he’s never going to strike a child, nor allow one to be struck while he still has strength. These children have learned enough lessons of fear and pain already, after all.

“Hmm. Good. Well, carry on – do let us know if you need anything.”

“I will, Father; thank you.”

He heads back towards the children’s dortoir. It might be wise to secure the written version of the new alphabet somewhere, between lessons, where it can’t trouble his more _settled brethren_. Smiling, he wonders which part the Abbot heard, and outright chuckles at the notion that he might have come past during ‘Y’.

Maybe he can get Adele engaged with the construction of an alternative, more publicly acceptable alphabet. Yes, he thinks, that would do very well.

And tomorrow writing names – their own, their families’, if they can bear it, and certain of the fond-remembered ones of his acquaintance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only four of the seven children seen in _Spoils of War_ are given names, and even then only two are referred to in IMDB. I may have aged Pierre up a notch for the sake of getting some dialogue out of him (or maybe he’s just short… yeah, that’s it…). Wee Marie (the Porthos cosplayer) hasn’t turned up yet.


	3. Appendix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having developed a Musketeer Alphabet for the children, it felt like a shame not to share it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Embedded image has transcription in hover-over and alt text. It is also expanded on later in the main text

Aramis’s new alphabet was developed together with the children and involves no illustrations as it is accompanied by rote gestures.

Some of the rationales for his choices are more difficult than he had anticipated; for example, when explaining the concept of _honour_ , which develops into a spirited debate between him and Luc, leaving him wishing he’d gone with _hat_ , but too stubborn to change it now; and the inclusion of Xavier, who was one of his own favourite informants several years ago, and has to be elided into Porthos’s (though luckily no-one questions why Porthos’s informant has a Spanish name). He is also torn about _Y_ , but figures that, for one: d’Artagnan will never know he’s being somewhat misquoted on a daily basis, and, for another: he’s beggared if he knows what else would go under _Y_ (and be so popular).

It takes a fair amount of putting together, including the part where Adele hesitantly-but-resolutely points out that Monsieur Aramis’s _I_ looks very much like his _J_ , and Aramis, with an amount of chagrin, agrees that, for the sake of clearer education, he should take someone else’s (Athos’s) capitals as a model by which to improve what he has produced. At some point, he thinks, he should really get someone to make a hornbook of it, which should obviate anyone reading his handwriting. Well, the Official Version that Adele is working on, anyway:

Apple, Bible, Cup, Dog, Egg, Fig Leaf (Aramis had suggested this, as a further sop to their current context, and, fine, unable to tear his mind from the vulgar connotations of Adele’s plain Fig), Goat, Hogling, Ink, Jerkin, Kite, Lamp, Milk, Nest, Oar, Pear, Quill, Rope, Snow, Tree, Under (because Pierre casually suggested Udder, and here we are), Valley, Wall, aXe (they agree that this is somehow less deeply unsatisfactory than oX and probably only because it’s symmetrical – all Aramis’s X-words were Greek), Yoke, Zero (Aramis concedes that this is a more useful, though less politic, choice than his own Zealot).

All-in-all, he’s pleased with how this has worked out, but has conceded that there’s no way he can repeat this kind of victory with numbers…

This is the routine that awaits the next orphan to join them:

A is for Athos [everyone fists one hand to a hip (or hilt) and looks a little grumpy (or sarcastic if they can manage it)]

B is for Bolloré [everyone flings one arm out and swishes through magnificent moustaches with the other hand; cue much clashing of elbows, some even on purpose]

C is for Constance [everyone curtseys then draws an imaginary sword]

D is for D’Artagnan [everyone swishes said imaginary sword with a great deal of gusto and assumed bravura]

E is for En guarde [everyone raises said sword into the ready position and narrows their eyes in deadly concentration]

F is for Fabron [everyone waves their arms about rhythmically and jumps around; cue much bumping into people, some even by accident]

G is for Gauntlet [everyone either pulls on imaginary enormous gloves or (Luc) pulls one off and throws it to the ground with a fine air of challenge]

H is for Honour [everyone assumes heroic poses, one fist over their heart]

I is for Inseparables [everyone puts their hands in the middle together and shouts “All For One!” (Sometimes Aramis feels a definite prickling of the eyes and has to clear his throat for calling the next letter.)]

J is for Jacques [everyone pats (or is) an imaginary horse]

K is for King [everyone assumes noble poses and puts a crown on their heads]

L is for Louis [everyone stamps their feet or generally flails about in a temper; Joop, in particular, loves this immoderately]

M is for Musketeers [everyone balances an imaginary long-barrelled gun on their other forearm and closes one eye; Joop and Pierre experience mixed success with this last]

N is for Nightwatch [everyone yawns ostentatiously and moans _boooriiing…!_ ]

O is for Officer [everyone salutes with their imaginary swords]

P is for Porthos [everyone assumes aspects of imposing bulk, usually with thumbs tucked into approximate belts]

Q is for Queen Anne [everyone either bats their eyelashes and fans themself or bows with great flourishes to someone batting and fanning]

R is for Roger the Horse [everyone mounts up (or is) an imaginary horse, with much indicating of a fine, long tail]

S is for Sword [everyone sheathes their imaginary blades]

T is for Tréville [everyone strides about, swishing a cloak]

U is for Uniform [everyone pats the top of their right arm with an expression of terminal pride]

V is for Victory [everyone throws imaginary hats in the air and raises both arms high]

W is for Warrior [everyone looks fierce and draws various imaginary weapons]

X is for Xavier [everyone looks sly and skulks about]

Y is for You killed my father! Fight me or die on your knees! [which everyone shouts with a great deal of gusto and assumed bravado]

Z is for Zad the Horse [everyone mounts up (or is) an imaginary horse, with much neighing]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was fun to develop, and I owe thanks to Thimblerig for a) enthusing this addition, b) telling me about [hornbooks](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hornbook), which were a pre-lamination way of providing a mobile, more waterproof crib for alphabets, among other things.
> 
> Some fun facts:
> 
> Hogling is an old (Middle English) word for piglet, and I find it almost unbearably cute, so you get to enjoy it too.
> 
> Roger the Horse appears to be the established fanon name for Athos’s horse. Zad is, apparently, the name given to the actual horse Luke Pasqualino rode as d’Artagnan. (Source: comments in [this LiveJournal post](https://bbc-musketeers.livejournal.com/56872.html).
> 
> Oh, and figs. Yes, well, I owe Etymology Online many debts, for making sure I don’t use anachronistic words in general in these works (apart from the obvious, which are generally BBC canon dialogue anyway), and now for the knowledge (that Aramis would definitely have possessed) that “fig” [has a lewd connotation](https://www.etymonline.com/word/fig#etymonline_v_5925) in Greece and Italy particularly, plus the old “Giving the fig” gesture ("Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?").

**Author's Note:**

> The Abbey/ Monastery did not exist in the form depicted by the BBC, not until well after the Thirty Years War was concluded. However, presumably they felt it a touch less dramatic to send Aramis off to a commune of a handful of men in some rented buildings in… Paris, instead of the large, stone structure right on the border where the Northern Front of the war was taking place. So I’m following BBC canon, but every name of every monk mentioned will be one of the actual names of the men in the Douai community at the time.


End file.
